


Sins of the Flesh

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Asphyxiation, Biting, Cunnilingus, Domestic Violence, Drinking, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealousy, Manipulative Relationship, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Mutual Abuse, Obsession, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Somnophilia, Unhealthy Relationships, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 17:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "The city streets are on fire and the sun is so blinding that it burns behind your eyes even after you look away from its radiance. Nash is standing outside on the balcony, a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. He's shirtless and sweaty and there's plastic sticking to his skin over the red welt of a new tattoo. You stare at his back until your gaze penetrates his awareness and he has to look over his shoulder to confirm what he already knows." Nash is an embodiment of all things bad for you but no matter how terrible things seem to get you can't see a future without him in it.





	Sins of the Flesh

The storm is closing in.

The sky is overcast and pregnant with rain, and the air is heavy with a stickiness similar to the sweat dampening your overheated skin. The house has darkened several shades within the last ten minutes but you can't be bothered to peel yourself away from the sheets adhering to your flesh to turn on a light. The blond at your side has already fallen asleep, his face pressed in close against a dented pillow that smells like shampoo and cigarette smoke. He's lying flat on his stomach and with each shallow breath he takes, you watch the ink etched into his skin come to life. Lightning streaks across the sky and illuminates the glistening sheen of his sun-kissed flesh, variegated by the many bruises and superficial lacerations that cut between his muscled shoulders and trail down the curvature of his spine.

You rove your eyes over his frame, reveling in the beauty of the boy you feel lucky enough to call your own. You lift a hand and walk your fingertips down the staircase of his spine and frown despite the current wealth of happiness you're feeling. You think about the countless number of women he's been with before you and wonder if he's been honest in his fidelity. For a moment, you feel like you're being buried alive and no amount of oxygen can keep you from perishing. You think about the fights and the violence and the proverbial blood trail that you've been traveling for the past six months; you begin to wonder if being with Nash has anything to do with luck at all. But you've long since hewn your heart wide open and made a promise to the boy with his roots so deep in you that cutting him out now would mean an end for you both.

You ignore the slide of Egyptian cotton as it slips down your chest and the change in the atmosphere kisses your skin, thunder rumbling in the distance. Modesty is a thing of the past and you know Nash well enough that you can confidently time the soft snores that slip past his slightly parted lips, chapped from the straight edges of his teeth and lack of moisture. You know—even as you're planting a trail of tender kisses up his spine—that without interruption he won't be waking any time soon.

Rain pelts against the windows and when you lift your head to watch a kaleidoscope of rivulets bead down the glass lightning branches in several directions at once. The low vibration of thunder that follows sounds closer now and when you look back down at Nash you remember how he taught you not to fear the dark and the thunder and the lightning. Nevertheless, you can't help but feel like you're sleeping with the monster under your bed, your whole world wrapped in his smile and your soul in the heart of his fist.

You're in love with the bogeyman and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

* * *

The summer heat is unbearable and being in love doesn't feel as good as it probably should.

The city streets are on fire and the sun is so blinding that it burns behind your eyes even after you look away from its radiance. Nash is standing outside on the balcony, a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. He's shirtless and sweaty and there's plastic sticking to his skin over the red welt of a new tattoo. You stare at his back until your gaze penetrates his awareness and he has to look over his shoulder to confirm what he already knows. He takes a final drag from the foul-smelling cancer in his hand before flicking it over the balcony's railing and out of sight.

“What?” is all he says when he steps back inside. He rakes a hand through his hair and sets down what's left of his drink on a table near the sliding door.

“Nothing,” you tell him and lift your shoulders in the barest of shrugs. “Your hair is getting too long. You need to get it cut again.”

“I'm pretty sure you weren't boring a hole through my back because I need a haircut.” Nash hooks his thumb in the waistband of his shorts and you don't even know that you're ogling the sharp angles of his hips until he exhales a breath of laughter through his nose. “All right, what is it? What'd I do now?” Nash asks, sounding more amused than curious.

“I said it's nothing. I'm fine,” you answer, and reluctantly tear your gaze away from his body to look at him head-on. “What makes you so convinced that it would be about you anyway? Are you guilty of something I should know about?”

Nash shakes his head and lifts his shoulders in a nonchalant gesture of indifference. “No, but you only look at me like that when you're pissed off or you want to fuck and I'm not getting strong vibes that it's the latter.”

“You'd be right about that,” is your reply, thick and shot-through with more venom than you actually intend. You cross your arms over your chest and pretend to invest yourself in the state of your nails.

“So you're pissed,” Nash states resolutely. “What is it? What could I possibly have done this time?”

“You say that like you don't fuck up every other day,” you answer without delay, your voice steady and low and not without a sense of collusion.

Nash emits a sound that catches between his teeth and you don't have to look up at him to know that his inquisitiveness has switched to irritation. “Yeah because you're so perfect—I forget how hard it is to keep up with your pristine disposition. How should I apologize this time? Get down on the floor and kneel at your feet? Would that make you happy?”

“I'd never expect you to lower yourself for me, Nash. Don't be a dick.” You tilt your chin up and look him in the eye, through the fire and flames and the threat of potential violence. “I just don't see how it's fair that I'm supposed to accept what you do with other girls when I can't even look in the direction of a guy without you jumping down my throat.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Nash asks, a veil of confusion falling down over his face. “I haven't been with any other girls since the last time we talked about this.”

“Really?” you yell, the volume of your voice startling you into a shock of awareness that feels like electricity prickling your skin. “You didn't have a girl on your arm this morning when you got home? You didn't kiss her on the cheek when you said goodbye? What else did you do with her Nash? Did you fuck her before or after you got your new ink?”

Nash stares at you in a way that makes you clench your hands into fists, the anger bubbling in your veins rising to heat in your lungs. You want to leap across the room and rake your nails down his face to expunge the smug look on his features—the look that spells apathy and screams arrogance.

“Are you finished?” He drawls the question as if he's speaking to a child and at that moment, you can't think of a single reason as to why you stay with him. “For your information, _princess_ , I saw her stranded on the side of the road on the way home from the shop and helped her change a flat tire. She insisted on walking me home as a token of her gratitude even _after_ I told her that it wasn't necessary. She was on the way to see her boyfriend when she noticed something was wrong. That's it. Nothing more.”

“Then why didn't she call _him_? She shouldn't have accepted your help when she has a boyfriend and _you_ have a girlfriend,” you say bitterly, hating that Nash could have a plausible reason for his actions.

“Why not? It didn't stop you from fucking me,” Nash proclaims coolly.

“That was a different situation and you know it,” you warn, digging your fingernails into your palms.

“Why? Because it was _you_?” Nash exclaims and takes a step in your direction. “It doesn't matter what your reason was; yeah, that guy was a piece of shit but you still cheated on him, so don't sit over there and pull that holier-than-thou bullshit with me when you're just as guilty as I am.”

You jump up and onto your feet in automatic response, the product of the fury Nash has instilled in you, both long-standing and brand new, fueling the flames licking at chords of your heart. “I was leaving him! You have cheated on me how many times, Nash? I can't even think about the number of women you've been with because if I do I can't breathe. I get so overwhelmed at the thought of it, the _knowledge_ that I could be just another number. Do you know how bad that feels? How much the idea of that hurts? I never claimed to be perfect but at least I'm not a hypocrite like you.”

“If you were just another number you'd be long gone by now. Do you really think I'd put up with this bullshit if you weren't different? Christ knows you're not just a conquest, babe, 'cause I aced that match a long time ago.” Nash chuckles behind a shaky breath and the weight of the underhanded insult lances through your heart like the sharp point of an épée.

“Don't do that. Don't turn this around on me. If I could go back in time and change things now I would.” You shake your head and step away from Nash when he moves in closer to you.

“You sure about that?” he questions, the implication of suggestion heavy on his quick tongue. “Because I don't think you would. I don't doubt that you _think_ you would, but you wouldn't.”

“What makes you so sure about that, Nash? You don't have the slightest clue as to what you've put me through in the time that we've been together. You're almost impossible to be with.” Nash reaches for your arm but you take another step back and out of his reach. “Stop it. I don't want you near me right now.”

“ _I'm_ impossible to be with?” Nash counters incredulously. “What about you? Here I am on a fucking tightrope because I did something decent for a girl and you're up my ass about it. Yet you have the gall to call me a hypocrite.” Nash turns around and throws his hands up in a show of defeat. “Fine. Fuck it. You're right. I'm an asshole and you're never wrong.” He reaches for a black tee that's slung over the back of the couch, slightly wrinkled and otherwise camouflaged. “I'm going out.”

“Yeah, just run away like you always do, Nash. Just leave and give me all the more reason to believe that you're running into the arms of some other girl.” You turn around and start walking in the direction of your shared bedroom for no discernible reason—you suppose it's for lack of a better thing to do—but Nash's fingers close on your arm in a bruising hold that forces stillness and makes you cry out in pain.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Nash growls, and you can feel negative energy in the trembling of the cool digits digging into your flesh. “You push me away but you don't want me to leave. Which is it, girl?”

“You're hurting me, Nash. Let go,” you command, and without thinking you shove at his shoulder solidly.

Nash surrenders his tight hold but no sooner than you lift an arm to rub away the lingering ache is he shoving you hard against the wall. Your back hits the solid resistance with a dull thud and a rush of breath leaves your lungs as shock and vulnerability take up residence in the shallow graves beneath your ribcage.

“Is this what you want? Is this why you're always pushing me?” Nash demands as he takes the hem of your shirt in his fist and yanks it roughly over your head. He cants his hips and uses the weight of his body to pin you closer up against the wall, holding you in place as he tugs the straps clinging to your shoulders down your arms.

“Nash...stop it,” you implore, nails catching at Nash's bare shoulders hard enough to draw blood. You want to believe that you've injected enough urgency into your voice to stall Nash's progress but you know that the attempt is fruitless because your hands are working open the front of his shorts like your last breath is on the line.

Nash ducks his head forward and fastens his lips to the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his teeth scraping against your torrid skin as he savagely works your bottoms past your hips and shoves them to the floor. Your fingers catch on the traction of his flesh briefly but the friction is only momentary, and before you can inhale your next breath Nash is lifting you away from the floor and you're wrapping your legs around his chiseled frame in an involuntary motion to keep yourself from falling. You wrap your arms around his neck for purchase and exhale a ragged gasp as he chases a shudder into your body. The first thrust is driven but the second is rough and impassioned and you get so lost in the moment that you couldn't find restraint in the scant space between you even if you tried.

Nash fucks into you like the world is crumbling around you and the hands on the clock in the next room are counting down your last seconds. He fucks you with single-minded determination and raw passion, unhinged and fierce and possessive. His breath is coming hot and fast and there's slick sticking to his skin as the heat of summer adheres to his body.

You tear at the skin concealing the tension in the shift of his shoulders in an act of helplessness and desperation but if Nash cares he doesn't show it. Instead, he shifts his mouth to the smooth column of your throat and sucks a motley of future bruises into your skin. He paints you in swatches and swathes you in sentiment so tangible you can taste it cloying in the back of your throat. You cry out when he sets his teeth over the thrum of your pulse and bites down; pain and pleasure threads through you with the speed of a missile that comes apart when it reaches the rapid beat of your heart. You cling to Nash as if he's the only thing tethering you to solidity and sink your teeth into your forearm as the rhythm of his thrusts touches on every raw nerve-ending humming beneath your skin.

Nash lifts you higher and you close your eyes as he plants pleasure so deep within you that it'll take days to sweat it out. Your shoulder catches on a picture frame, handing it over to gravity where it breaks into pieces and sends glass shattering out across the floor. Nash tenses his fingers and presses them in closer against your skin, desperation writing itself out across his flesh in ink so brilliant it outshines the black. You reopen your eyes and watch his mouth fall slack for a breath he can't quite catch. You duck your head forward and fit your lips against the shape of his own in a kiss that turns sloppy and open-mouthed in a matter of seconds for lack of oxygen.

It doesn't take long after Nash spills himself to completion inside of you that you're capitulating to the rush of sensation surging through your veins. Your thoughts are muddled and your vision is hazy. Your chest hurts from the rate of your breathing and every inch of your body feels like it's been put to the test. You groan something unintelligible as Nash slowly withdraws from your slick heat and lowers you to the floor.

You hiss as a small shard of glass cuts into your foot but the pain you feel is minimal against the pleasure that's still spiraling out across your skin. Nash looks at the mess on the floor as if he's seeing it for the first time and before you can frame your lips around an explanation he's lifting you back into his arms and carrying you over to the couch.

“You'll do anything for my attention, won't you?” Nash teases, setting you down against plush cushions and dropping to his knees. He fixes his shorts back into place and lifts your leg to get a better look at the minor injury.

“You're not charming,” you mumble, your voice quiet and grating.

“Liar,” Nash replies, smiling in a way that makes your heart dissolve with the sands of time. You roll your eyes in lieu of response and lurch when Nash removes the shining particle from your skin, slightly calloused from walking around barefoot.

“That hurt,” you scold, pretending to pout. You make to tug your leg out of Nash's grip but he tightens his hold and leans forward to place the flat of his tongue against the bottom of your foot. He sweeps his tongue across the sting of the cut and licks the blood from the wound before allowing you to move freely. “You're disgusting,” you tell him, pulling your face into an expression indicative of the claim.

“Baby, I've had my tongue in far worse places,” Nash jokes, laughing when you swat him on the back of his head sharply.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” you drawl through a groan. “You're so gross.” You push yourself into an upright position and press your thighs together in an attempt to conceal the wet sticking to your skin.

“What's that say about you? You think I'm hot.” Nash smiles winningly and rights himself before palming the front of his shorts. “You'd be lost without me.”

“No” –you shake your head– “I'd probably be in much better health,” you say, knowing that you're only half joking. “Now can I have my clothes? I'm cold.”

“You have legs,” Nash says, then: “Here.” He reaches over the side of the couch and drops the black tee he never got to putting on into your lap. “Wear that. It should be long enough.”

“You're an ass. I hope you know that.” You slip out of your top and replace the form-fitting fabric with the soft cotton of Nash's favorite shirt. “I hope I get your jizz all over this.”

“I don't see how that's _not_ possible. You're dripping like a damn sieve,” Nash notes, laughing.

“You're the one who comes like a stallion!” you shout in objection.

“Woah,” Nash throws his hands in the air in a motion of submission. “I'll do a lot of things but don't rope me into pony play. That shit isn't for me.”

“Nash, I hate you. Go play in traffic.” You attempt to rub fatigue from your temples but Nash takes your wrists into his hands and bends forward to kiss you squarely on the mouth.

“You don't hate me, baby. You never could,” Nash tells you before he turns on his heel and starts in the direction of the bathroom.

You stare after him for a brief moment, your expression blank but your mind riddled with thoughts. “I wish that wasn't true,” you whisper before getting up to join him in the shower.

* * *

A lot can change in a week.

You're still asleep when Nash enters the room, sunlight spilling across your face to highlight the bruise darkening your cheek. The living room and hallway are both still in tatters from last night, a grisly reminder of the damage that was caused by a fight that never should have happened.

There's clothing all across the bedroom floor and broken glass in the doorway, and Nash hasn't bothered washing the blood from his knuckles where he put his fist through the drywall. There's blood on the pillows and tears in the sheets and Nash can't seem to fit everything that transpired back inside his head. He can only guess from the damage and put the pieces where he feels they belong; the only thing he knows with certainty is how he feels and right now, it's worse than the path of destruction he's walking. He follows the damage right up to where you're sleeping and when he's faced with the evidence of what he's been trying to deny, he's consumed by a wealth of emotion.

Which should be a sign of acceptance leading to progress but Nash isn't capable of feeling wholly sorry for what he's done—and at this moment, regret is far-removed from what he's experiencing.

He leans over the edge of the bed and strokes the contusion spreading out beneath your skin in a marbled patchwork of disparate purples and blues. He brushes his fingertips over the contour of your cheek and smiles when you moan quietly in your sleep. He draws his hand away when you roll over and onto your back, nothing more than a thin tank-top and a pair of panties to interpose your skin. Nash waits until you settle back into stillness and your breathing returns to normal before pressing a knee in against the edge of the mattress. He carefully balances his weight above you as he begins to appraise the damage done to your body. He notes the bite marks and the scratches and the bruises and in doing so, he can feel last night's ache settle into his bones. The coffee table is still in pieces from where he fell and he's not entirely convinced that it wasn't his skull that broke the clock on the wall considering the headache that's pounding behind his eyes.

“What the hell have we been doing?” Nash asks aloud, his voice hoarse and weak. “At this rate, we're going to kill each other.”

The concept should bother Nash more than it does, however, the thought isn't merely falling by the wayside—it's being eclipsed by the weight of impending arousal. It's likely sadistic and reprehensible by any medical dictionary committed to paper but Nash has never concerned himself with diagnoses, and moral standards have been far beyond his reach for years.

Nash slides the flat of his hand over your stomach and down to the elastic of your panties where two straight welts are visible above the fabric. He furrows his brow and painstakingly lowers the material to reveal several small lacerations that come together to form the shape of an 'N'. Nash sweeps his tongue out across his bottom lip before absentmindedly taking the bitten tissue between his teeth. He doesn't remember etching the letter into your skin but he has zero reason to believe that you would have done it yourself. He reaches out to touch the makeshift brand, checking to make sure that you're still asleep before tracing the lines cut neatly into your flesh. The wound is shallow, the handicraft far from deep, but Nash can see your skin's irritation in the red that spreads out across your complexion. He spares another glance in your direction, then bends forward to press a delicate kiss against the inflamed letter.

When Nash draws back he detects the way your lips have parted for air and the slight hitch in your breathing. It's encouragement enough but the heat radiating from the soft of your thighs is what spurs Nash on, makes him slide back just far enough to lay a trail of honeyed kisses over your sex and down your center. You emit a moan-crossed sigh and involuntarily part your legs to accommodate the shape of his body and accept his salacious ministrations. To Nash, it's an invitation and furthermore, it's _permission_.

He slides his palms up your legs and gently holds apart your thighs as he lowers his head and drags the flat of his tongue over the fabric of your panties. The touch is glancing at most but Nash is perceptive enough to notice the shiver that passes through your limbs and turns to gooseflesh on your skin. He walks the tips of his fingers over the raised bumps and kisses the inside of your thigh, then he slips a long digit under the strip of material concealing your sex and the slick result of your body's natural response.

“Fuck,” Nash exhales, the word a whisper against the damp heat of your arousal. He presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and smiles when your body twitches in physical acknowledgment. He grinds his hips down against the mattress in an effort to alleviate the ache pulsing through his cock. The friction he's given isn't quite satisfactory but it takes the edge off long enough for Nash to spread apart your wet folds and work his tongue over the sensitive skin between.

You dig your heels into the bed and writhe against the sheets, and Nash no longer cares if you're awake or asleep as long as he gets to drink you down like dry soil thirsts for rain. He works his tongue into you, relishing the tiny helpless sounds that bleed from your throat like a broken prayer, and when he's finished fucking you on the slick muscle he slides his mouth up to your swollen clit. Your body jerks almost violently but Nash pays the bodily feedback no mind, rather, he fastens his mouth to the sensitive nub and applies just enough suction to bring your back away from the bed.

Then he stops, leaves you whimpering against the sheets like you're the victim of an unwelcome nightmare. He licks the moisture from his lips and brings himself back to his knees, his hand slipping into his shorts to stroke over himself in desperate need. He lets his head fall back, his hair brushing the angle of his shoulders, and closes his eyes in relief. Pleasure sings through his veins in a chorus of electric heat and the promise of future release. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the pearly fluid leaking from his cockhead while his opposite hand works his shorts down to the bend of his knees. He hisses pleasure when the room's tepid air meets the slick on his skin, a dichotomy of sensations spilling down his spine to settle in the weight of his balls. Time seems to hang in suspension and Nash is breathing hard and fast, trapped in the sweat and the heat and the overwhelming gratification that's like passion in a fight. He trembles and whispers a litany of curses that don't quite make sense when they form into audibility. Then he leans forward, catching himself on his free hand while the other hurriedly fists his cock to blessed surrender. Ribbons of come spray the wrinkled fabric between your thighs and a number of droplets spill over onto the bed covers.

Nash exhales a full-bodied sigh and falls into a boneless slouch, his hand still moving on his soon-to-be softening member. It's an idle motion, one that's generated by autopilot single-mindedness, it's coming down and sweet compromise.

Nash looks down at you and finds himself surprised by the fact that you're still asleep. He half-expects you to be awake, to be waiting for the right moment to attack, but you're not and you aren't and Nash thinks it's better this way. So he slips off the edge of the bed and shucks his shorts to the floor before using them to clean what he can from the sheets and your panties, then he heads in the direction of the shower to clean the salt and the stickiness from his skin.

* * *

You're beginning to wonder how much longer you can play the fool.

It's almost three o'clock in the morning and you're sitting in the corner of the room, your arms wrapped around a stuffed bear that Nash won for you last Summer at a carnival in the next town over. You hate nights like these the most because Nash always goes out with his friends after they win a match and you're left in the background to wonder what he's doing and who he's with, but it's waiting to find out what kind of mood he's going to be in when he gets home that makes your stomach spin into nausea and your nerves tingle with fear.

Then there's the hollow space left for rumination because nothing good comes from being in the dark and you can't quite bring yourself to turn on the lights. You sit and mull over all of the good and the bad and the dark and the dirty and you can't formulate a sane reason for why you're still in a relationship with the blond-haired boy who's dragged you through mud so deep you've brushed hands with the devil.

You can't bring yourself to admit that it's love, even though somewhere, deep down within the depths of your subconscious you know that there's no other explanation for it. But it makes you sick, makes you hate yourself for it. It makes you wonder where you went wrong because the more Nash seems to put you through, the more you seem to fall in love with him. You wish that you would learn to stay away from fire when you know that you're only going to get burned, but you're in love with the pain as much as you're infatuated with the idea of spending the rest of your life with Nash. The more he hurts you the more you want him, and as sure as the sky is blue, you know that you're not leaving him anytime soon; no matter how much you should. If love is his weapon then you're sorrow's attraction and you just don't know how to turn it off.

But when Nash comes home he's drunk and he's high and you don't know how much longer you can keep outpacing the inevitable. You stay silent in the corner and watch as Nash kicks off his boots and stumbles over to the couch. He falls down against the cushions and tosses several throw pillows onto the floor before tipping over onto his side as if holding his weight up long enough to lie down is too difficult a task.

He's snoring within minutes and you don't know why but the familiar damp of tears are streaming down your face. It's not the fact that he didn't notice you or even the fact that he didn't bother to look for you—but the bones of contention in which you feel for the drugs and the alcohol, and the unjustifiable way you feel when you look at him even in this state all becomes too much for you to bear. The road you're on feels too narrow, like you can't breathe, like you've fallen to the bottom and there's nothing left to do but pick up the pieces of your heart that Nash has scattered everywhere.

You crawl over to the couch and rest your head against his side. You listen to the ragged sound of his breathing and the strange sounds clicking in the back of his throat. You know that you should be angry and question why you're not, but you reach up and grab his arm for something to hold onto without an answer. You drape the weight of it over your shoulder and hold onto his hand as you cry yourself to sleep in the shadow of the room, wondering if and when things will ever change.

You wonder if you even want them to but the games you play are never fun anymore and settling the score is no longer about what's fair.

On the other hand, what's the point in winning when all you've ever done is set yourself up to lose?

* * *

It's strange how envy can make even the greenest of things look a little greener.

Nash once called you an angel and you're starting to think that maybe it's true because you seem to bring out the devil in him in a way that no one else can.

It's karaoke night at a local club and even though there's distance between you, you can feel Nash's eyes on you from across the room. You inhale a deep breath because the weight of his gaze is crushing and all you want is to get back to where he's standing. You dig through the change in your pocket and withdraw the amount needed for the machine in front of you. The coins smell metallic and jingle when you push them through the drink machine's designated slot. The amount paid lights up on the plastic front and you insert two more coins before the machine allows you to choose a button that's not glowing orange and out-of-order. The rumble of a plastic bottle signifies motion but the drink gets stuck and you kick the machine in a gesture of impatience.

That's when you find yourself in the company of a handsome boy who tips the appliance forward just enough to free the plastic bottle from its confines. He smiles at you kindly and asks your name but before you can frame an answer on your lips, Nash's shoulder brushes up against your own and he's staring down the boy like a loaded gun.

“Why do you have to be such a bully?” you ask Nash, twisting the cap off of the bottle in your hand. “He was just trying to help me.”

“Because you belong to me and I'm going to make damn sure everyone knows it,” Nash answers and wraps an arm around your waist.

“That implies that you don't trust _me_ , though,” you tell him, slightly offended.

“No, it implies that I don't trust the assholes who want to get with you.” Nash turns around and looks at you directly. “Only one of us has a dick between their legs, so trust me when I tell you that its opinion is just as important as our brains'. You're gorgeous, so that alone makes you a target.”

“Is that what happened when you first approached me? Your dick liked me so you decided to talk to me?” you ask, half-teasing, half-serious.

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?” Nash asks you, taking the bottle out of your hand and downing a quarter of its contents.

“I wouldn't have bothered asking if I didn't.” You snatch the drink back and take a swig before Nash steals the rest of it, tasting him on your lips.

Nash shrugs, “Okay then, yeah. That's pretty much what happened. I thought you were hot so I approached you. I was hoping for a one-night stand. I never expected you to last.”

“Are you disappointed that I did?” you question, gripping the plastic in your hand harder than strictly necessary.

Nash seems to debate his answer for a moment and his silence drives a wedge into the beat of your heart. You're suddenly fearful of his response but then he opens his mouth and says: “I don't think I'd ever find someone like you if I went looking for her. I don't deserve you. So no, I'm not disappointed. I only regret that I didn't find you sooner.”

It's one of the most genuine things Nash has ever said to you and it hits you hard, trapping you between raw emotion and overwhelming happiness. However, both emotions are quickly extinguished by the guilt and confusion that tells you what you're doing is wrong. You shouldn't be elated that you've won over the heart of a man like Nash. You're asking for danger and deceit and a life of full of impending heartache. You should feel fear and doubt and at the very least you should be organizing an escape plan. Yet, leaving is the furthest thing from your mind and when Nash wraps you in his arms and plants a kiss on the top of your head, you realize that he could do anything to you and you would remain at his side.

That does scare you, it scares you so much that you feel your knees go weak and your heart begin to hammer in your chest. You hear the ocean in your ears and feel the blood in your veins rush to beat the tide. There's a storm raging inside your mind and the water is running high but you just can't find it within yourself to care if it drowns you as long as Nash remains a part of your life.

You will let him burn you at the stake if it keeps him from straying, you will let him nail you to his cross if it means that you don't have to let him go.

You will be his sacrifice it that's what it means to love him.

* * *

You love him for everything you hate him for.

It's already December, cold and dark and blustery. The midnight moon hangs bright and heavy in the sky, a glimpse into heaven that makes you think about all of life's important and unanswered questions. You lie in bed, Nash's hand around your throat and the breath in your lungs growing thin. You close your eyes and let yourself fall to the edge of everything you've ever known, down to the truth that helps you understand why you're still in love with a man who holds the power to take away your breath and bring you back to life.

You feel like you're a part of a past you don't belong to but as the light begins to fade behind your eyes, you know that this is home and that darkness is your sister.

Nash relaxes his grip and you gasp yourself back into breathing. Your eyes come open at the sound of his voice and the shift of him moving inside of you. There's something different about the look in his eyes tonight, something almost broken but just as violent as the hurricane that swells in the light of his brilliant gaze. The night is still young and tomorrow holds no imminent promise of things to come so Nash fucks into you slow and he fucks into you deep. He fucks you until the slide comes easy and every inch of your flesh is hypersensitive and charged.

You press your fingertips into the shift of his shoulders and press your knees in against his hips, the traction of his skin heightening your senses. You can see the light shimmer of sweat sticking to his skin in the moonlight spilling into the room. The smell of sex hangs heavy in the air and you can taste the salt on his lips before he even crushes his mouth against your own with a ferocity that's unmatched to the way he's making love to you—something he's never done in the entire time that you've been together.

When he draws back and looks down at you it's like staring into the sun. His eyes burn like embers and his smile cuts through you like a whiskey river. He's an angel with a crooked halo and when you pull him closer he burns a little brighter. He's a devil with broken wings and when he presses his thumb into the scar on your hip you sing a little louder. It's everything right and every little thing wrong but somehow you manage to make it work. It's sitting on the top shelf and drinking cheap champagne. It's standing on a goldmine and begging for change. It's all things it shouldn't be but many things that should, and you think you're finally beginning to accept it for what it is in its entirety.

Nash rolls his hips and you draw him closer, a single unit working in tandem beneath the stars and the blackest of nights. His hands catch at your skin in a way that spells desperation and brands ownership across your body. You card a hand through his hair and rake your nails against his scalp, a motion that would otherwise lull him to sleep. He sighs contentment and rocks forward with a modicum of force, scarcely harder than the rhythm he set previously. His shoulders begin to shake and you can feel his body giving in to the inevitable.

You stroke his back and he thrusts into you like love bears a different name, and when he comes it's with your name on his lips and warmth behind his eyes. He bows his head and fits his lips, trembling and damp, against your own. He slowly removes himself from the tight grip of your body and cants his hips to grind the head of his slick member against your clit, all while kissing the breath from your lungs and exploring every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

It feels like he's stolen your soul right out of your chest but you'd happily hand it over to him if it meant feeling like this for the rest of your life. You clutch at his arms and come away from the bed as much as the juxtaposition of his body will allow. You cry out his name as tears catch on the lines of your lashes and the magnitude of your orgasm calls you out into the ether.

“Damn,” Nash says, breathless and shivering. “I need to fuck you like that more often.”

You offer him a smile because the rise and fall of your breathing makes you incapable of speech. You twist the hand still buried in his sweat-damp strands and tug him forward into a kiss. It's chaste and brief but it's enough, and when Nash rolls over to occupy the space at your side, everything feels as it should.

You know that there's more violence to come—that the road ahead of you hasn't gotten any smoother. You know that there's going to be more blood and probably twice as many tears but that truth is one you can swallow. You can handle hard knocks, hot water, and tough luck, you just hope that you never have to face the pain of losing the one person you can't live without.

The person who has as much of a chance of killing you as he does keeping you alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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